Tangled Up in Love (9 page)

Her eyes widened in surprise, and the mouthful of Pinot Grigio she’d been in the process of swallowing threatened to go down the wrong pipe.

How had he found out about that?

Of course, since her luck seemed to be in the toilet already, it was only logical that things would continue on that track. Instead of keeping his distance, Dylan popped up off the floor to come to her rescue. He slid onto the sofa beside her and patted her on the back until her coughing fit subsided.

“You okay?” he asked. His wide, strong hand made rhythmic taps and circles on her back, sending shivers out in every direction from where he touched.

She nodded, despite the fact that her face was hot with embarrassment. Lower, though, and deep down inside, everything hummed in sensual, sizzling awareness of the man beside her.

Showing no concern whatsoever for her ability to breathe, he leaned back, adopting a slouched posture in the center of her overstuffed sofa, and murmured, “I
have to admit, I’m intrigued. It’s not just any woman who would have the
cojones
to use Domiknitrix as her onscreen user name. That’s kind of . . . kinky, don’t you think?”

Prior to her anxiety attack, her glass had been nearly empty, so none of her wine had spilled. But why take chances? Raising the wine to her lips, she drained the last of her own, then grabbed Dylan’s right out of his hand and drained that, too.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised, Stone. We’ve already established that my balls are at least as big as yours.”

He chuckled, moving to relieve her of both wine-glasses and set them aside on the coffee table.

“True—figuratively speaking, at least.” He cast her a pointed glance. “I hope.”

“Don’t worry, Stone, I’m not packing anything other than the average, everyday female parts. But I can still kick your ass at anything you claim men do better than women.”

He studied her for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, gentler. “Don’t you think it’s about time you started calling me Dylan?”

She blinked, taken aback by the question. She’d just been working up a good head of steam, feeling fully in control of herself for the first time that evening and back on the solid ground.

And then he’d pulled a 180, yanking the rug out from under her with a completely unrelated—not to mention civil—request.

She hated when he did that.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to be on a first-name basis?”

He threw his head back and laughed.

“Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” he said after he’d recovered from whatever he found so amusing. “You really are a treat. You’re the only woman I know who would invite a man into her apartment while she’s in her jammies, do her best to teach him to knit, and still refuse to call him by his first name.”

“It’s late. What did you expect me to be wearing?” As comebacks went, she knew that was lame, but it was all she could come up with at this time of night, with three glasses of wine in her, and feelings cropping up inside that she’d never expected to have to deal with,
ever
.

His blue-eyed gaze raked over her, taking in the long fall of her nearly dry hair, her shoulders, left bare by the thin straps of her pajama top, and the fullness of her breasts just above the brown-and-white basset hound in the center of her chest.

“Judging by your screen name, a guy might hope for some leather and lace, maybe a few fun restraints.”

The image of Dylan tied spread-eagle to her bed, naked and at her mercy, sent a streak of white-hot electricity racing through her bones. Picturing herself done up in a black bustier, black fishnet stockings, and garter belt, with a long, wicked-looking whip in one hand, had her breasts swelling and her nipples turning hard beneath her top.

Did he notice? He had to notice. How could he not when it felt as though they could chip through ice?

She fought the urge to cover herself, afraid that would only draw attention to her aroused state. And the last thing she needed was for Dylan Stone to know he turned her on.

“I think you should leave,” she told him in a flat voice, hoping her face was equally impassive.

Instead of looking offended or taken aback by her sudden suggestion, he merely raised a brow and quirked one corner of his full, sensual mouth.

“What’s the matter, Veronica? Did I hit a nerve? Get a little too close to unveiling the red-hot mama that lurks beneath your cool, uptight exterior?”

Uptight? Where did he get off always calling her uptight? Just because she dressed professionally and refused to lower herself to his level of lazy, laid-back, so-called charm . . .

She tried to make a scoffing sound, but it came out as more of a cross between a whimper and a wheeze. “You wish, Stone.”

“Actually, I do.” He shifted slightly away from her on the sofa and tilted his head to one side, taking her in from head to toe. “I’m picturing you in tight black leather with lots of silver studs. High, high-heeled boots that go all the way to your . . .”

He trailed off just long enough to slant a glance at her lap, and damned if a bolt of wanton longing didn’t strike her right where he was looking, right between the legs.

“Thighs,” he finished, as though that had been his intention all along. “And I’m thinking handcuffs, or maybe a few silk scarves that would be soft and gentle, but keep a man exactly where you wanted him.”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the timbre of his voice went even lower, heightening the sexual consciousness that was already coursing through her veins.

It took her a moment to regain her equilibrium, catch
her breath, and get her heart rate to return to normal. Everything within her vibrated with sensual awareness, not just of the tension in the room, but of the man across from her. And that way lay disaster with a capital D.

“You,” she said, hopping to her feet, “have got a fertile imagination. No doubt brought about by the lack of interesting topics you’re given to write about at work. If I were forced to cover bingo night at the VFW and Slappy the Wonder Dog walking backward on two legs in a tutu, I’d create alternate realities in my head, too.”

Pushing to his feet to meet her eye-to-eye, he gave her a narrow stare and cocked one hip. “You know full well that columnists aren’t given assignments. We come up with our own topics to write about.”

One brow shot up, though she didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to; her look was enough. Yeah, as columnists, they both had free rein over what they wrote about, and as long as they kept their columns interesting enough, their editors wouldn’t call them on the carpet and send them back to covering the boring and inane.

But that didn’t explain why some of Dylan’s columns did, indeed, feel as though they’d been low-level assignments. At least at the beginning of his employment with the
Cleveland Herald
. A fact that she’d been only too tickled to see, considering he’d stolen the job at that particular paper right out from under her.

One thing was for certain. If the
Herald
had hired her instead of Dylan, she’d have wowed them right from the start, not filled space with stories any average third-grader could have written.

Then again, maybe Dylan had been a naughty boy his first few weeks on the job and covering the ridiculous had been his punishment.

Oh, shoot!
Now her brain was back on the hot-domination-sex image again.

“And for your information,” Dylan added almost petulantly, “Slappy was a very cute and gifted canine.”

His comment caught her off guard, and she had to bite back a grin. “I’m sure he was.”

Her lips were still edging upward as she turned and made her way to the front door. “I really do think you should leave. It’s late and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“Closing down one of Cleveland’s most popular delis, right?” he asked from only a few steps behind her.

Reaching the door, she slipped the chain loose and twisted the knob. “I can let that one go, if you don’t mind a fair amount of rat droppings in your hoagies and potato salad.”

Dylan made a face, stopping just short of the hallway. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for the health inspectors to pay them a visit. Just to be safe.”

Ronnie nodded. “I agree.”

“So what about this knitting thing?” he asked, holding up his yarn and needles. “Are you still going to help me out?”

Either the wine or the late hour must have had a dulling effect on her senses because she didn’t even think it over, didn’t weigh the pros and cons or try to figure a way out of it, she simply nodded.

“Next time, bring some Chinese or something, though. And your own beer, if you want it.”

He smiled, flashing straight white teeth and the hint of a dimple in each slightly tanned, slightly stubbled cheek. “Deal.”

“Good. Good night.” She opened the door an inch
more, though there was already plenty of room for him to pass.

“One more thing,” he said, not making the least effort to exit her apartment.

With a sigh and just managing to avoid an exasperated eye roll, she asked, “What’s that?”

“My first name is Dylan. I’d like to hear you say it.”

She blinked, startled that
that’s
what he was still hanging around for. He was Stone; he’d always been Stone, and that’s what he would always be. She didn’t want to call him Dylan, or even think of him that way; it was too close to taking down the wall of enmity between them.

“You’d probably also like to hear me say men are braver, stronger, and more capable than women, but it’s not going to happen.”

“Come on, Chasen, I know you can do it. It’s just two short syllables. D-y-l-a-n.
Dy-lan
. Dylan.”

Arching a hip, she dropped her hand from the door-knob and pinned it to her waist. Her eyes narrowed, and this time when her temperature rose, she knew it had nothing to do with the wine or the sexual drought she’d been suffering for longer than she cared to admit.

“Bite. Me,” she told him, enunciating each word the same as he had his name.

Instead of looking properly reprimanded, his grin widened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And before she had a clue what he was about to do, before she could formulate a reaction, he leaned in, wrapped one firm, vise-like arm around her waist, and dragged her against his chest. His hard solid wall of chest.

She had the fleeting thought that he must work out—
a lot
—in order for her to clearly feel the ridges of his abdomen through his shirt and her pajama top.

Yowza.

His mouth settled over hers, warm and soft and intoxicating. Every nerve ending in her body went numb. She stood in his grasp, thunderstruck, the arm that had been at her hip falling loose and forgotten at her side.

Several things went through her mind at once.

First, that Dylan Stone was kissing her.

Next, that
oh, my God,
Dylan Stone was kissing her!

And then, that he was a really,
really
good kisser.

Maybe if they’d done this a bit sooner, their relationship could have started out on a better foot. They might have challenged each other in the bedroom rather than through their newspaper columns.

Oh, bad Ronnie, bad. Don’t think that way. He’s your enemy, no matter how skilled he might be with his mouth.

She thought about pushing him away. Somewhere deep in the recesses of her brain, a voice whispered that the Ronnie whom Dylan had come to know would slap him.

But it was so very hard to work up the energy to slap him when his lips were dancing magic across her own. They pressed and then retreated. Slid slowly in one direction and then the other.

All of that she might have been able to resist . . . it wouldn’t have been easy, not with her knees turned to pudding, but she thought she could have managed it . . . but then the tip of his tongue darted out, licking the seam of her mouth, and any shot she’d had at resistance
dried up and disappeared like a peach left too long in the sun.

“Say my name,” he ordered, the whispered words quivering against her skin, his warm breath dancing across her face.

She didn’t think, didn’t resist, simply opened to him, feeling flames of longing licking at her insides.

“Dylan,” she breathed. And the minute she did, his mouth captured hers, sweeping inside, more forcefully and demanding than before.

Her brain turned fuzzy, her heart pounded like a jungle drum, and an almost unbearable heat pulsed between her thighs. She wound her arms behind his neck and lifted one knee to wrap her calf around his leg, her limbs moving of their own volition.

She pressed her breasts against his chest, rubbing her painfully puckered nipples along that solid wall and wishing they were both stark naked. Lower, where their pelvises were stuck together like two supercharged magnets, she felt the hard crest of his erection and knew his arousal mirrored her own.

Oh, yeah, naked would be good. Naked would be
so good
. . .

But before she could start yanking at his clothes or stripping out of her own, he broke the kiss, set her on her feet, and held tight to her elbows until she was steady, then took a single step back.

She blinked, stunned by his sudden desertion, the jarring switch from swapping spit to having twelve inches of empty space between them. Her head was spinning, making her feel slightly woozy and disoriented, and the rest of her body prickled as though it
had been touched by a live wire. Even her skin felt jumpy.

It was only moderately satisfying to see that Dylan’s own chest was rising and falling with a labor of breathing that matched her own.

But with distance came the return of her senses, and with those came irritation and awkwardness.

“What was that?” she demanded, crossing her arms beneath her still full and tingling breasts.

“What? You mean the kiss? Come on, Ronnie, you can’t tell me it’s been so long since a guy has kissed you that you don’t even recognize one anymore.”

“Very funny,” she said, her gaze narrowing. “
Why
did you kiss me? You don’t even like me. And I sure as hell don’t like you.”